Chapter 10 - Dawn Over Willow Creek
Three months later.
The winter had been unusually harsh in Middle Tennessee, but by late April, the frost had finally surrendered to the green, rolling hills around Old Hickory Lake. The dogwood trees were exploding in white and pink blossoms along the perimeter fences, and the surface of the reservoir looked like a sheet of hammered silver beneath the morning sun.
On the back terrace of the stone manor, a large woven blanket was spread across the flagstones.
Lucas and Noah, now nearly six months old, were rolling on their stomachs, kicking their bare feet, and babbling in that private, mysterious language known only to twins. Lucas had grown thick, dark curls that matched my own, and his cheeks were plump, healthy, and rosy. Noah was sitting up with the help of two velvet cushions, his wide brown eyes fixed intently on a yellow butterfly fluttering near the boxwood hedges.
I sat on the edge of the stone balustrade, wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old flannel shirt—clothes I hadn't worn since before my father died.
On the cedar table beside me sat my laptop, open to the morning financial reports. Bellamy Logistics had posted record quarterly earnings, the Whitmore bankruptcy had been fully liquidated, and Claire Whitmore had been transferred to the Federal Correctional Institution in Aliceville, Alabama, to begin her fifteen-year sentence without parole.
I barely glanced at the screen.
The market didn't matter. The stock price didn't matter. The only metric that held any value in my universe was the sound of Lucas laughing as he reached for a rubber teething ring.
The French doors swung open.
Megan stepped out onto the terrace carrying a tray with two porcelain mugs of black coffee and a bowl of fresh strawberries from the local greenhouse.
She had gained her weight back. Her cheeks were full and warm again, her hair fell in thick, honey-brown waves over her shoulders, and the sharp, haunted look in her eyes had softened into something calm, steady, and deep.
She wore a simple white linen dress, her bare feet making soft slapping sounds against the warm flagstones.
She set the tray on the table, picked up one of the mugs, and handed it to me.
"You're up early," she said, leaning against the balustrade three feet away, looking out over the water.
"Noah woke up at five," I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee. "He wanted to inspect the sunrise. We had a very serious discussion about the migration patterns of Canadian geese."
A genuine, beautiful smile touched Megan's lips—a smile that reached her eyes, lighting up the honey-colored flecks in her irises.
"He's going to be just as stubborn as you," she murmured.
"God forbid," I said. "One of me is enough punishment for this world."
She laughed softly. It was a light, clear sound that carried across the terrace, mingling with the morning song of the cardinals in the pine trees.
For three months, we had lived in the same house like two ships navigating a fog-bound channel. We had shared meals, we had shared midnight feedings, we had shared the terrifying joy of watching Lucas take his first clumsy roll across the nursery carpet.
I had never crossed the threshold into her bedroom. I had never touched her hand without permission. I had spent every day proving that Rowan Bellamy could be a father before he was an executive, and a protector before he was a husband.
"I received a letter from Belle Meade yesterday," Megan said, her gaze drifting toward the lake.
My heart tightened slightly. "From the estate agents?"
"Yes," she said. "They said you put the main house on the market."
"I did," I replied. "Last Tuesday."
She turned her head to look at me, surprise flickering across her features. "That house has been in your family for three generations, Rowan. Your great-grandfather laid the foundation."
"It's just brick and mortar, Megan," I said, meeting her eyes. "Too many lies were told in those halls. Too much arrogance lived behind those columns. I don't want my sons growing up in a museum dedicated to their father's worst mistakes."
She was silent for a long moment, watching a tugboat push two gravel barges slowly up the main channel of the river.
"Where are you going to live?" she asked.
"I bought a farm thirty miles south, in Willow Creek," I said. "Two hundred acres. An old farmhouse with a wrap-around porch, three barns, and a trout stream. It needs a lot of work. The roof on the horse barn is sagging, and the kitchen looks like it hasn't been touched since 1974."
Megan looked at me, a strange, unreadable expression playing across her face. "A farm? The CEO of Bellamy Logistics is going to fix barn roofs?"
"I used to know how to use a hammer," I said, looking down at my hands. "Before I started using checkbooks to solve problems. I think it's time I remembered."
She took another sip of her coffee, then set the mug down on the cedar table.
She walked over to the blanket, dropped gracefully to her knees, and scooped Noah into her lap. The baby let out an excited squeal, grabbing a handful of her hair with his sticky fingers.
"Willow Creek is near the hills," she said softly, nuzzling Noah’s neck. "My mother used to take us camping out there when we were kids. There are wild blackberries along the creek beds in July."
"I know," I said. "The listing agent mentioned them."
She looked up at me from the blanket.
The distance that had separated us for twelve months—the chasm of forged photographs, frozen bank accounts, and bitter pride—seemed to narrow until it was no wider than the space between two breaths.
"Is there room for two cribs?" she asked.
The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis.
The wind through the pines, the call of the birds, the hum of the distant barge—everything vanished, leaving only the sound of my own heart thumping against my ribs.
"There's room for six cribs," I said, my voice thick with emotion I couldn't swallow down. "And a studio for someone who wants to paint again. And a garden big enough to feed an entire county."
Megan looked down at Lucas, who was now crawling slowly toward her knee, then looked back up at me.
Her eyes were moist, but they were clear.
"We aren't who we were three years ago, Rowan," she said, her voice steady and honest. "The girl who worshiped you on the hood of that truck... she died the night you let security take her away. I'm never going to be that girl again."
"I don't want that girl, Megan," I said, stepping down from the balustrade, walking slowly toward the blanket, and dropping to my knees beside her. "I want the woman who survived me. I want the mother who kept my sons alive when I failed them. And I will spend every sunrise for the next fifty years earning the right to sit on that porch with you."
She looked at my hand resting on the blanket between us.
Slowly, deliberately, without looking away from my eyes, she reached out and laid her hand over mine.
Her skin was warm. Her pulse was steady.
"The roof on the barn," she whispered, a tear finally escaping her eye and rolling down her cheek, meeting the corner of a soft, hopeful smile. "Can we paint it red?"
I closed my fingers around hers, feeling the strength and the life in her grip, and for the first time in my life, I knew that true wealth had nothing to do with what you owned, and everything to do with what you had the courage to rebuild.
May you like
"Whatever color you want, Megan," I said, leaning forward until our foreheads gently touched in the morning sun. "Whatever color you want."
Below us on the blanket, Noah let out a happy gurgle, grabbing Lucas’s foot, while the morning light spread across the Tennessee hills, chasing away the last shadows of the long, cold night.
